


red as apples

by Merideath



Series: into the woods [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Bisexuality, Blood, M/M, Multi, Snow White - Freeform, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merideath/pseuds/Merideath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time there was a beautiful prince with lips red as apples, hair dark as the heart of the mountain, and skin white as snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red as apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aenaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenaria/gifts), [Cluegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/gifts).



> This all started with a beautiful drawing of [Bucky eating an apple](http://typhoidmeri.tumblr.com/tagged/once%20upon%20a%20time%20in%20a%20kingdom%20lost%20to%20time) that I reblogged on tumblr and added some ridiculous fairy tale tags. The tags brought the attention of Aenaria and cluegirl who are enabling, enablers who enable. 
> 
> Thanks go to Aenaria for hand holding and beta'ing services rendered. Any other mistakes are my own.

Once upon a time in a kingdom lost from memory, a boy was born on the longest night of winter. The starving time when wolves slip through the shadows of the wood with ragged fur stretched tight over ribs and hollow bellies.

 

Skin white as the drifts of snow spilling through the cracks in the eves. Hair dark as the heart of the mountain where monsters and the dwarven kind make their home. Eyes blue as the larkspur blooms. Mouth red as apples. Red as the blood on his mother’s lips, the blood pooling in the linen.

 

The queen is laid to rest above the frozen ground, stones piled high above her. Tears freeze on chapped red skin.

 

Three days dawn before the king gives a name to his son, as the babe lays in the arms of his nursemaid.

 

James, the supplanter.

 

The king does not take a second wife, he grows withdrawn and silent. A living ghost relying more and more on the whispers of his man Pierce. With the passing of the seasons James grows strong and brave, and as beautiful as the fair folk that live hidden in the forest.

 

He kisses the maids. Charms the cook with sweet smiles and bright laughter as he steals bread, cheese, and the sweetest honey cakes.

 

There is a boy with hair the color of straw, clear blue eyes, and a blood stained grin, crooked and bright as the sun. Stephen who makes his heart beat fast against it’s cage.

 

Time slips past, the king a mere shadow in the halls, and Pierce grasping power in his skeletal hands. “It’s time the prince went hunting,” Pierce smiles at the huntsman, with all the grace of a serpent.

 

Snow is falling like goose feathers when they find a bear, twice as tall as a man, with fur too thick for an arrow to find the creature’s heart.

 

Betrayal tastes of blood and snow.

 

The bear tears the prince’s arm from his torso and he stumbles, lost, through the trees. Drops of blood like jewels on the snowy path between the skeletal black trunks.

 

Fever burns through him when he stumbles upon a cottage deep in the wild wood.

 

The fever burns through him and he forgets his name. Forgets the summer-born boy with the crooked smile.

 

A blacksmith with clever hands, and the magic of the fair folk, crafts an arm of shining silver metal and cogs that sing out with each movement he makes.

 

He loves a witch with hair the color of all the fires of hell. He wears scars like ribbons. Learns the art of death. Of blades and arrows, wire and fists.

 

There is winter in his smile now. Sharp and bitter.

 

_The prince is dead._

_The king is dead._

_Long live the king._

 

The king has a looking-glass, a wretched thing of silver and ice.

 

An old man sells a soldier a blade with poison soaked in the leather binding the handle.

 

Poison cannot seep into fingers of metal.

 

A kindly woman gifts him a crimson apple painted in poison.

 

Red skin and bone white flesh. Poison bitter on his tongue. No breath passes between his blood red lips, and his flesh grows cold.

 

“This time there is nothing to save you, boy,” says the king.

 

The Winter Soldier’s body is washed in wine and clear water. He is buried in a coffin built of lead and shards of clear glass. Years crawl past and he does not change. Skin white as snow. Hair dark as the heart of the mountain. Mouth red as apples. Red as blood.

 

There is a man with hair and beard the color of straw, clear blue eyes, and a smile bright as the sun. He is not a prince, the blood in his veins runs red as any man’s.

 

“Sir Stephen, we must go. The light fails. It is not safe in these woods,” Samuel says, gloved hands tight on the hilt of his sword.

 

“Leave,” Stephen chokes, fingers pressing  against the cold glass coffin.

 

“There are wolves and thieves...”

 

“I said leave, Samuel,” Stephen orders.

 

The woods are silent save the beat of Stephen’s heart as he pushes aside the coffin lid. The glass shatters on the ground and startles the birds from the trees. “James,” he breathes out, gathering the body to his chest.

 

James, James, James, his heart beats out. He cradles James in his arms, presses dry lips to forehead, cheek and mouth. Tears spill down his face, and splash onto James’ cold skin, and he holds tight. His muscles scream and bones ache.  

 

A piece of poisoned apple falls from James’ red lips. Sweet air fills his lungs and eyes the color of larkspur blink in the fading light.

 

“James.”

 

“Who is the man that bears that name?” asks the soldier. He scrambles back, silver fingers grasping the knife on his belt.

 

“Tis your name.”

 

“I know you.”

 

“You do.”

 

“Once there was a prince,” James says, twisting a knife between his mechanical fingers. “Tell me how the story goes.” Stephen tells him all that he knows. Rushed words weaving a tapestry of blood, and death. The king’s honeyed lies.

 

James collapses in on himself. A dying star. A scrap of parchment in the fire.

 

They sleep in a tangle of limbs and shared breath. Safe in the shelter of Stephen’s great cloak, indigo wool lined in bearskin.

 

The sun breaks the stillness of the night, and they walk side by side through the green wood.

 

Winter slips across the kingdom, and battle is waged. By the fingers of James’ silver hand Rumlow is slain. A kiss of Winter’s blade.

 

A constellation of blood drops on snow.

 

There is blood on his hands, one silver, one flesh, but he is spared the death of a king. Stephen’s blade cleaves Pierce’s envious heart in two. The looking-glass shatters and James cradles the golden crown in trembling hands.

 

“The crown is too heavy for me to bear. I am no king,” James says, raising the crown above Stephen’s head. “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

 

The prince with skin white as snow, hair black as the mountain, lips red as apples, stands beside the summer-born king for all the days of his reign.


End file.
